


What You Hope Is That You Will Learn / From The Scars On Your Skin

by kissesfromkrug



Series: 5 + 1 [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Depression, Idiots in Love, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10953153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: “Don’t even try. I don’t need help.”Ryan refuses help 5 times + the 1 time he lets Taylor in.





	What You Hope Is That You Will Learn / From The Scars On Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :)  
> Title taken from "Love and Lust" by Lovex.  
> Another warning for self-harm.

•1•

It’s a form of releasing tension; it always has been and it probably always will be. Quickly draw the blade across, watch the red droplets roll down, repeat until the number of lines is satisfactory. Cover it up with a homemade bandage, and no one asks questions, and if they do, there’s enough excuses out there to convince them.

Well, everyone except Taylor.

He’s so fucking _stubborn_ that Ryan doesn’t know how to deal with him. All the usual responses can never seem to convince him like the few others that ask, who just seem to get it the first time around. The thing is, Taylor isn’t stupid, no matter what people may say. He’s especially good at reading people, which is unnerving, to say the least.

Ever since he started questioning Ryan, he hasn’t—well, he hasn’t stopped. He always wants to know what’s up, but more importantly, 'what’s under that bandage, I think you're deflecting'. Ryan just rolls his eyes and gives a typical response, usually finding another excuse to slip away before Taylor can delve further into the questioning. Except this time, there’s nowhere Ryan can go.

“Nuge,” Taylor says as he flops down on the couch. He latches onto Ryan’s wrist and tugs him back down. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Ryan’s tone affects boredom, but he isn’t convincing anybody.

“About what the hell is wrong with you, obviously.”

“There’s nothing wrong—”

“Shut up,” Taylor interrupts, squeezing Ryan’s wrist once before letting it go and leaning back. “Just hear me out for a bit, will you?”

“ _No_ , _you_ shut up, I’m perfectly fine.” Ryan snatches his arm completely away from Taylor, ignoring his pleas as he leaps up and runs to his bedroom. Not today.

•2•

They lose a dirty game to Dallas, and Ryan has one thing on his mind as to what he’ll do when they arrive home. He’ll just take out the blade, make a cut for every goal they gave up, and silently cry himself to sleep. That's what usually happens, at least. 

This time, however, Taylor _won’t fucking leave him alone_. He insists on sticking by Ryan’s side the second they get back to their apartment, and Ryan wouldn’t be surprised if Taylor makes a move to jump in the shower with him too. Hopefully not. He doesn’t need to see the blood. 

He doesn't need to know how cowardly Ryan is.

“That fucking sucked,” Taylor announces bluntly, spitting toothpaste everywhere. Ryan wrinkles his nose and shoves him away, wiping his face with a hand towel and throwing it at Taylor before exiting the bathroom.

“Yeah, it did,” Ryan agrees as Taylor checks his phone one last time in the kitchen before plugging it in. Suddenly, he blurts out, “I sucked worse though, I really should’ve—”

“Is this what it is?” Taylor interrupts, staring intently at Ryan’s face. “You feel responsible for the failure of a team? You think you’re responsible for a lack of team effort? Bullshit, that’s fucking bullshit, and you know it.” Ryan stays silent, and Taylor sets a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your problem, trust me. Your tiny failure can hardly contribute to our fucking huge one as a team.”

“But all put together, failures go from minor to huge—”

“The Nuge is huge, the Nuge is huge,” Taylor singsongs to himself a few times, interrupting Ryan. Ryan blushes a bit, snapping his fingers to regain Taylor’s attention.

“Anyway, uh, if everyone fails by themselves, then the whole team fails.”

“But that’s not what’s happening. We’re not failing individually, we’re failing to be a united team, and that’s why we can’t win, can’t succeed at hardly anything. We’re not a meshed team.”

“Go to bed, you talk too much,” Ryan complains, holding a hand over his eyes. However, Taylor _does_ have a point… “It hurts my brain.”

“I’m only trying to—”

“Don’t even _try_. I don’t _need_ help.”

•3•

It’s easy to do when they lose, but the night of a 4-2 win over Buffalo, Ryan still can’t help himself. While the boys go out and celebrate, he goes back to the hotel and locks himself in the bathroom. He stares at his reflection for several minutes, tightly gripping the blade in his hand.

“Fucking _do_ it,” he whispers to himself, and drags the silvery metal across his upper thigh. It stings, like it always does, but there’s a sense of satisfaction mixed in. He sighs in pleasure by the third stroke, wondering what Taylor’s doing, if he’s chatting up some stranger, or maybe having a few too many shots of that tequila he likes, or maybe dancing and looking stupid and attracting a little more attention than he should.

Those thoughts of Taylor are more endearing than they should be.

Ryan thinks of how he started, watching a movie about someone who eventually committed suicide because of depression. It's so stupid, really, but he thought it was cool to stray that close to the edge. It's not cool; it never was and never will be, but just like any addictive habit, he can't find a way to stop.

He hates himself even more for it.

He's got a multi-million dollar contract to do what he loves, he's got friends by his side, he gets to travel around the continent 9 months out of the year and during the other months he can go literally anywhere—but there's still something missing. There's always been a hole in his heart, and he can't figure out how to fill it.

“Nuge?” There’s a knock on the door, and Ryan scrambles to put the blade away. He twists the shower knob and strips the rest of his clothes off.

“I’m in the shower,” he calls. His fingertips graze the sliced inside of his thigh, and he winces and curses softly.

“What were you doing before?”

“Getting ready for a shower?”

“Is that a question?”

“No,” Ryan says firmly, trying to stop the bleeding with a wet washcloth. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, just hold up.” He pauses. “Why aren’t you out with everyone else?”

“Why aren’t you?” Taylor shoots back.

“I didn’t feel well,” Ryan answers steadily. “Now go away.”

“Are you feeling okay now?” Taylor asks, face probably still pressed to the outside of the door.

"I'm fine, now let me shower and I’ll let you in if you need to do something.” No answer. “‘Kay, Hallsy?”

“Okay.”

•4•

“Shut up, Taylor, just shut the fuck _up_! You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” Ryan shouts, fists clenched by his sides, the left one with a shirt in it. “Just shut _up_ and go bother your girlfriend or Ebs or Connor or whoever the fuck won’t flip shit on you like I am! Just get out _now_!” He can't remember the last time he was this angry at his best friend for something; if he's  _ever_ been this mad at Taylor.

“Can’t you see that I’m trying to help?” Taylor begs, refusing to move. Ryan has never felt so angry in his life.

“I don’t want your help, I don’t _need_ help! And if I did need help, I wouldn’t ask _you_!” Taylor looks stunned, and after a beat he shoves his hands in his jean pockets.

“I’ll go to Ebs,” he mutters, “Maybe he won’t yell at me for trying to be a nice fucking person.” He trudges out of the room as Ryan glares after him with fire in his eyes.

“Anywhere but here.” The moment Taylor locks the front door behind him, Ryan plods to the bathroom and searches for the blade. He holds it up to the light to admire it. He sighs as it reflects onto the wall, the mirror, and subsequently all around the room. It’s strangely beautiful, but its dangerous properties are made quite obvious as he tugs off his pants and puts the blade to the already-scarred skin.

Ryan looks in the mirror, red coating his fingertips. He tests the blade along the outside of his wrist, pressing down too light to cut. He decides he likes the feeling, and creates one tiny scratch on his right arm before cleaning and stashing away the deadly blade.

It’s a horrible habit, really, but it’s addictive. Ryan stares at the ceiling in his bedroom as he thinks of how it got this bad. He needs it every night, sometimes even more than once a day. He knows it’s killing him, that it’ll kill him for real if he doesn't stop, but it just feels so… _right_.

•5•

“Fuck,” Ryan mutters as the Flames score another power play goal. “Fuck you, Gio, fuck _you_.” The camera suddenly shifts, and the image of Ebs on his side sends a wave of unease through Ryan’s stomach. “Holy…” Ryan leans forwards, trying not to move his shoulder too much.

Jordan was thrown into the boards headfirst on a late hit by a Hamilton—fuck him too—and a scuffle breaks out as the trainers tend to a motionless Ebs. “C’mon, Ebby, get up,” Ryan breathes, and when the announcers voice their concerns he almost mutes it.

“—has had those sorts of problems in the past,” one of them says, and Ryan narrows his eyes. He stays quiet as Taylor circles Ebs, then hops back on the bench. There's several minutes of the announcers speaking in worried, hushed voices, then a commercial break, and Ryan waits with baited breath for the verdict on his friend when the coverage of the game returns.

“Fuck this shit!” He exclaims as Ebs has to be carted off the ice, and Ryan may or may not be a little high on meds. The camera switches back to Taylor, who looks like someone just stabbed his puppy.

“Taylor Hall has just lost _another_ line-mate, and it appears that Baby Oil is officially broken up,” the broadcaster says, a frown evident in his voice.

“Oh, shut up,” Ryan grumbles, muting the sound and simply watching the rest of the Jordan-less game. He toys with the blade, feeling the freedom to do whatever, wherever. Luckily, he hurt the shoulder of his non-dominant arm, so nothing should be affected.

As he makes the first slice, he wonders what the other guys do to relieve stress. Ryan can guarantee that when Taylor hasn't been out in a while or is getting antsy or bored, his first thought is to jerk off. It's probably the go-to stress reliever for pretty much the entire team. The thought that masturbating is healthier and a helluva lot safer than what he does is always buried in the back of his mind, constantly nagging him. He usually ignores it, and not for the better.

Ryan has both options at his feet every time he gets anxious, but more often than not, he chooses the bloodier and more idiotic one. He's such an idiot.

Until Taylor realizes what exactly Ryan needs, nothing much is going to change.

•+1•

Ryan slices deeper than he ever has, accidentally letting a pained cry slip from his bitten lips. He freezes, scrambling to hide the blade under the sink as Taylor calls worriedly, “Nuge?” He doesn't answer, rummaging around for a band-aid and patching up the short but extremely bloody cut. Unfortunately, there are several more that are still leaking obvious red droplets. “Ryan?”

“Hold on a sec.”

“No, I won’t—“ Taylor flings open the bathroom door and cuts himself short. “Nuge, what the fuck?" Ryan ducks his head, and Taylor repeats in a louder voice, "What the fuck, Ryan? What is this? What the hell are you doing?”

"Get out of here."

"No, I won't get out. What are the actual fuck are you doing? Do you think you're an emo 12 year-old trying to be cool?" Ryan huffs and glares up at Taylor with a dull look in his eyes, growling,

"I don't think I'm cool, now get the fuck out before I—"

" _Tell me why you're doing this_!"

"Don't yell at me, get your ass out of here before I fucking deck you." Ryan stands up and winces instinctively, and Taylor's face goes from furious to concerned.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

“I’m just—” Taylor interrupts, 

“No, don’t say that, you're not ‘just’ doing anything, you’re-you’re _hurting_ yourself, you can’t—there's no good excuse for that!” He seems more horrified than angry, Ryan observes as he looks at Taylor’s distressed face. Guilt floods him as Taylor’s expression contorts into one of fear and worry. Ryan's own anger and embarrassment fades into a simple pain and sense of defeat. “Why would you even _think_ of—” Taylor can't get out the words, but Ryan understands.

“This…it’s just what I do,” he mumbles, filled to the brim with intense remorse. Why he's even explaining himself, he doesn't even know. He doesn't deserve to be heard. “It’s…it's my thing, I guess. Don’t get mad, you don’t understand.” Taylor brings him into a tight, more-than-a-bro-hug, ignoring the fact that Ryan’s jeans are pooled at his ankles.

“No, I don’t understand. Why this?” It’s almost as if Taylor is asking himself, so Ryan doesn't answer. “How _could_ you?” Taylor pulls back and looks at him.

“What—”

“Ryan, you’re practically perfect and you can't—you don’t get to decide what to do to yourself,” he interrupts. “No one’s allowed to hurt you, especially yourself. I love you; you're _mine._ You don't have—don't _get_  to do this to yourself, you don't deserve it.” Ryan shivers at his possessive tone.

“I’m _what_?” He breathes, not even sure what he's asking, but Taylor only silences him with a firm kiss.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, eh?” Taylor murmurs, grabbing a towel and turning on the shower. Ryan only leans his head on Taylor’s shoulder, closing his eyes and wishing that they would never have to move.

**Author's Note:**

> I still struggle with self-harm, so if you have any doubts or issues with it, I am 100% okay to talk to about it. Don't do it, it's stupid. I know from experience, and it's hard to stop.


End file.
